


The Kung Fuie Luie Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>U.N.C.L.E. uncovers an operation that's stealing the infrastructure plans to a number of California cities-- an operation masquerading as a martial arts school. Three of the Monkees have accidentally signed up for years' worth of lessons, leaving the band and the agents to join forces to stop the evil and to break the contract before the dip goes moldy and the party poops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: Kung Fu, Kung Pao, Chow Mein... All those Chinese Dishes

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a golden oldie from the mid-1990s-- it appeared in one of the issues of "Can You Get Channel 'D'." Resurrected for your pleasure (hopefully)

The lock to the city planner's office snapped from the force of a well-placed blow. A flashlight beam picked out the wall safe, then turned off. A slight figure glided into the room. Moonlight highlighted the metallic strands in his robes as he paused in front of the safe. He pulled out a stethoscope. Listening carefully to the tumblers, he soon had the safe-open. The tubes he wanted lay waiting for the taking. "Wong, take these and-- Wong?"

A poor-postured, hulking blob skidded into the room. "Sorry, Master. You're always so much faster than me."

Luis Hui-- better known as Kung Fuie Luie, the proprietor of Kung Fuie Luie's School of Martial Arts-- sighed. "That is why I am the Master and you are still a first-level student. If you weren't my cousin, I'd... Oh, never mind. Here. Get a head start." He tossed the tubes at Wong.

Wong fumbled the catch, dropping both the tubes and a good percentage of the papers he carried tucked in the folds of his school uniform. "Sorry, Master."

Hui stifled a groan. "I'll see you downstairs, Wong." He floated out of the office.

The student scrambled to collect his things and follow his master. He never even missed the small business card holder he left behind.

 

Waverly's top agents had use of U.N.C.L.E.'s private jet on their trip across the continent. Napoleon Solo had spread out a map of the L.A. basin on the bolted-down table in the back of the plane. He worked from two different lists to mark off locations. Illya Kuryakin sat nearby, hiding a small smile of amusement behind a recent Paris Match. "More than those business cards link Kung Fuie Luie to those break-ins," the senior agent concluded. "He's had a demonstration in almost every single town reporting a robbery."

"Yes, Napoleon, I know. I was at the briefing-- which is more than I can say for you. "

"Hey, at least I made the flight on time."

"Barely."

Solo leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, Mr. Know-It-All, how about explaining to me why a martial arts instructor is swiping infrastructure plans."

"Any number of reasons. Knowing how a city's services interconnect and how to access them can make it terribly easy for someone to induce chaos." Kuryakin put down his magazine. It's only a matter of time before Los Angeles' plans are stolen."

"Has Thrush shown any interest in the plans?"

"Yes. At a recent auction, they bought the plans to Redondo Beach and El Segundo. If Los Angeles' plans were to go on the block--"

"--they'd buy them in a minute." Solo sighed. "What about Warnock and Stilling?"

"Disappeared while investigating the Kung Fu school."

"I'm liking this assignment less and less." Napoleon folded up the map. "Twenty questions?"

Illya nodded once in agreement.

 

Wong studied the passersby from his post in the storefront doorway that gave admittance into Kung Fuie Luie's School of Martial Arts. He may be a first level student,but he knew enough to pick out a patsy in a crowd of people. And there came one now. A young man with long, light brown hair, wearing a loose-fitting red and white polka dot shirt, tight grey pants that flared slightly at the bottom, and black cuban heeled boots, ambled toward him. He chewed on his lower lip, obviously lost in thought. Wong stepped in his path, forcing the young man to crash into him.

"I'm sorry," said the youth, snapping out of his little world. "I didn't see you." 

"That's okay. You like kung fu, yes?"

"Oh, sure. Kung fu, kung pao, chow mein... all kinds of Chinese food."

Wong grimaced at the typical American response. Nevertheless, he refrained from telling him off. "Not food, martial arts."

"Like karate?"

"Better than karate. Come inside. See for yourself."

"Okay." The young man followed Wong inside and grabbed a folding chair on the sidelines. Wong stood watch over him to make sure he didn't leave.

Hui stood in front of a small group of his students, calling off punches. The students moved from form to form in unison, demonstrating both grace and concentration with each fist thrust. Hui finally clapped twice. The students assumed positions of passive readiness. "Formal bow," said Hui. "Su-- le." The students slammed right fists into left palms, then bowed from the waist as they rotated their palms toward their instructor. "Same time Tuesday. You may go." The students broke formation and drifted off to a pile of possessions in the back of the room.

"Good thing, yes?" asked Wong.

"Well, I guess--"

"Good." He pulled the young man to his feet and dragged him over to Hui. "New recruit."

Hui sized the youth up. "So you're interested in learning kung fu."

"Well, I... I don't know."

"Tsk tsk. Indecision plagues so many people these days. Kung fu clears the mind as it strengthens the body. And your body does need strengthening."

"You really think so?"

"You could benefit so much from my instruction." 

"Well--"

"Excellent. Wong, a contract." The student produced a two-part form from the folds of his jacket. "Thank you. Now, young man, just sign on the line."

The youth took the contract, and the pen that Wong offered. He glanced over it, brow wrinkling at all the large words in small type. "This isn't a lifetime contract, is it? Mike says I shouldn't sign one of those again."

"Lifetime? Oh, no. It's a small, five year commitment, that's all."

"Oh. That's different." Balancing it on his thigh, he signed the contract and returned it to Hui.

The instructor looked it over, then gave the young man a little bow. "Welcome to Kung Fuie Luie's School of Martial Arts, Peter Tork."

 

The dark-haired Texan in the knitted green wool hat dug out a magnifying glass from a drawer to better read Peter's copy of the contract. "You did it again, good buddy."

"What did I do, Mike? It's not a lifetime contract."

"No, it's not-- but it commits you to five classes a week for the next five years." Mike Nesmith shook his head. "Ya gotta read things before you sign them."

Peters lower lip trembled. "But I tried to--"

"Have no fear, Peter, I'll get you out of this." Skinny, pug-nosed Micky Dolenz slid down the bannister, snatching the contract out of Mike's grasp on the way. "I'll go over to that kung fu school and pull the old 'lawyer for the eccentric millionaire' bit. That ought to--"

"--really mess things up," Mike finished. "Micky, last time you pulled that, you ended up enrolling for graduate work at that dancing school. If anyone's going to get Peter out of this, it's Davy." He glanced over at the small Englishman.

Davy Jones tossed the magazine he had been reading behind an amplifier. "'Tis a far, far better thing,"' he paraphrased as he stood. "Don't worry, Peter, I'll have you out of the contract in an hour's time."

 

Davy arrived at the school in time to see a small, curvy blonde turn over a contract to Hui. "Angela Thompson, welcome to my school," the instructor said. "We'll see you here later this afternoon for class."

"Yes, sir." Angela turned to leave, and found Davy in her path.

"Angela Thompson, welcome to my life," he said softly.

She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. "We haven't been introduced."

"My name is David Jones, and I think I'm terribly in love with you."

"Me, too," Angela managed before slipping out of the door.

Davy watched he run down the street a moment, then turned dreamily to Hui. "Sign me up for whatever classes she's in."

 

Illya parallel parked the rental car across the street from the storefront school. He set up a small parabolic ear while his partner gazed through a pair of binoculars. Anything?" the Russian asked.

"Looks like Hui's signing up some kid for lessons. That hulk in the doorway seems to be eyeing everyone."

"He breathes heavily, that's for sure. Between him and the street noise, I can't pick up anything from inside. We may have to plant a bug."

"Maybe. Let's see what's going on in there first." Napoleon braced an arm against the car seat for better binocular support.

 

Mike made a face. "You signed up for how many years?"

"Seven. That's how many Angela signed up for."

Micky clutched his chest in mock anguish. "Lead astray by a pretty face. It's just too, too tragic."

"Hey, it's not like it happens every day."

"No, just every twenty minutes. Five, at a party." Mike placed Davy's contract next to Peter's on the kitchen table.

"At least I'll know someone in the class," Peter said brightly.

"Big deal."

Micky dug under the settee and pulled out a slightly dusty bowler. "Leave it to me, guys. I'll get you out of the contract."

"Micky," said Mike, "That trick never works."

"This time for sure." The drummer put on the bowler and headed upstairs to change.

 

Napoleon snorted. "Kids these days will wear anything."

"Oh, the suit and bowler? A little strange... perhaps he's a Beatles fan or something."

"Perhaps. At any rate, he's signing up for a class."

"Hmm." Illya glanced at the senior agent out of the corner of his eye. "That wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Hah? Oh, you mean sign up for a class?"

"Can you think of a better 'in' at the school?"

"Well, it's certainly the easiest 'in'. And since you thought of the idea......

Kuryakin shook his head. "I won't be able to hide successfully my karate training from him."

"Then I guess it's me."

"You can use the exercise."

"Very funny." Solo packed the binoculars away. "You going to wait here?"

"No, actually. I thought I'd go over to the local Chamber of Commerce and see if I can dig up a possibly hidden angle."

"Good idea. I'll check in with you in 90 minutes." Napoleon got out of the car.

 

Peter and Davy looked up hopefully from their checkers game. "Well?" the Englishman demanded.

Micky threw himself in a chair. "What time do you want to leave for class, guys?"

"Oh, man, not you, too," the bassist sympathized.

Mike strummed a minor chord on his 12-string Gretsch. "So much for rehearsing this afternoon, huh?"

"Or for the next five years," Peter added.

"Seven," corrected Davy.

"You mean you're not going to go and rescue us from the evil clutches of Kung Fuie Luie?"

"Oh, I'm going there, Micky," Mike said as he put his instrument away. "But with the way our luck's been going, I'm sure I'll be in class with ya."

 

Mike thought nothing of the blob in the school doorway until said blob pushed him back into the street. "Hey, what gives?"

"Sorry. Students only." Wong folded his arms across his chest and glared at the Monkee.

"I want to sign up."

"Sorry. Beginning class full. Come back in six weeks."

"Six weeks? But three of my friends signed up just this morning, and--"

"Sorry. Last opening taken twenty minutes ago. Come back in six weeks." Wong waved him away with a hand. "Go."

Mike sighed, and made it look like he was leaving. As soon as he rounded a corner, he plopped on a bench to think things out. So he couldn't get into the school easily. Sneak around the back? See if he could find anything incriminating on the school in an office or something? No, the cops wouldn't take too kindly to that kind of behavior. He should stick to more conventional ways.

Why not the Better Business Bureau? The contracts alone should be enough to start legal action against the school. And if the Chamber of Commerce had any complaints about the school, that would be even better. He dug his car keys out of a pocket. Over to the Chamber office first.

 

Kuryakin closed the folder on the school and leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply the slightly musty air of the Chamber office as his mind sorted through the information he had just read. Nothing but praises from local city planners-- the same local planners who reported infrastructure plans missing within a week of their commendations. Except... except for Malibu Heights. That city's plans had been stolen, but the prior kung fu demonstration didn't happen. Of if it did happen, the city planner didn't write a letter of commendation. Perhaps the Malibu Heights city planner deserved a little visit. He could get over there in fifteen minutes, and--

"Excuse me. If you're done with that file, can I use it?"

Illya opened his eyes, and favored the Monkee who had spoken with a raised eyebrow. "What is your interest in the martial arts school?"

"Couple of my friends got suckered into long-term contracts, and I was wondering if there was any complaints about the school. You know, so I have more stuff to bring to the Better Business Bureau."

"Oh." He turned over the file. "You won't find anything incriminatory in there."

"Doesn't hurt to check." Mike pulled up a chair and sat opposite the Russian. "You think something funny's going on over there, too?"

"You might say that."

"Maybe we should team up or something. I mean, we're both kinda doing the same thing."

Illya shook his head. "That wouldn't be a good idea. You should avoid the school."

"I can't, man, not with my friends spending five days a week for the next five years over there. I hafta help them out somehow."

Would it be better to leave the young man to his own devices, or to allow him to tag along on a potentially dangerous investigation? It's not like he and Napoleon needed additional help, especially not from an innocent bystander who could only cause trouble. Ultimately, though, wouldn't the youth be safer under U.N.C.L.E. watch than on his own?

The communicator ringing settled the matter once and for all. Mike eyed Illya's coat warily. The Russian sighed, pulled out his pen, and answered it. "Kuryakin here. Just a moment, Napoleon." He met the musician's eyes. "Very well. We will work together. My name is Illya."

"Mike. You some kind of government agent or something?"

"Or something." He sighed softly, then brought the communicator back up to his mouth. "Sorry about that."

"No problem," the senior agent replied, hiding behind a school brochure in the corner of the workout area. "Anything on your end?"

"Only praise, except from Malibu Heights. I'm going to see the city planner there, see if he can shed any further light. You?"

"I'm hoping to look around after class. There's a massage room in the back that I can conveniently get lost on the way to...."

 

Across the room, the three Monkees, all changed into the supplied school uniform, watched Napoleon curiously. "What is he doing, anyway?" Davy finally wondered.

"I think he's talking to his pen." Micky made a face. "And people think we're weirdos."

Peter suggested, "Maybe he's a secret agent or something."

"Nyah. If he were a secret agent, he'd be talking to his shoe. Or an ice cream bar. He's just some kind of nut."

"You sure?"

"Don't worry about it, Peter. He won't har--" Davy broke off suddenly. Angela had emerged from the women's changing room, forcing most thoughts out of the Englishman's mind. He jumped to her side and escorted her to the center of the room, chatting her up the entire time. He didn't notice Napoleon had straightened up at the girl's entrance.

Micky, however, did notice. "Uh oh, looks like Davy might have a little competition this time around."

"Isn't that guy a little old for her?"

"I don't think age matters with his type."

Peter reevaluated Solo. "I think you're right. I wish Mike were here."

"Actually, it's probably a good thing that he isn't here. Otherwise, we would be stuck in this class for the next five years."

Hui entered the class area. "Come along, come along, time to start."

Micky sighed. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

 

Authority bothered Mike. The responsibility made him uncomfortable; the people who wielded it made his skin crawl. The generation gap showed most obviously when Authority (whether it be the cops, the local officials or even just a store manager) met Youth. Normal response? A slow sizing-up, eyes narrowing as the colorful clothes and long hair clashed with Authority's opinion of the Properly-Attired Young Man. Then came the contemptuous glare and the condescending vocal sneer.

Brian Carstens, the Malibu Heights town planner, responded normally to Mike's presence. That's why the Monkee enjoyed Carstens' reaction to Kuryakin's gold ID card.

Carstens pointed his two visitors to chairs, then slipped behind his desk. He picked up a pencil and nervously chewed on the eraser. Mike decided that Carstens must have voted for Goldwater in the last election from the amount of discomfort the planner displayed. The guitarist rested his right ankle on his left knee and tried not to appear too amused.

"Kung Fuie Luie's School Of Martial Arts?" Carstens repeated, looking like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. "Ah, no, I, um, never had them do anything. Didn't see the point. All that kung fu nonsense... you know."

"What I know, Mr. Carstens, is that you are the only city planner whose plans have been stolen who did not acknowledge a demonstration by the martial arts school prior to the robbery." Illya looked at him expectantly. "Why is that?"

"Well, I... it's not important."

"Isn't it?"

Carstens squirmed slightly.

"I'm sure the mayor--"

"Okay, okay!" Carstens sighed. "Kung Fuie Luie gave a demonstration at my youngest brother's birthday three days before the plans were stolen. I didn't want to say anything, because Kung Fuie Luie was doing me a favor, and-- well, the mayor might not take too kindly to it, since he approached me professionally first."

"Professionally?"

"He approached me in my capacity as city planner. The mayor's a stickler for not taking advantage of city positions for personal gain."

"And he'd see this birthday party demonstration as personal gain?"

"Well, I didn't pay for it, and it was pretty good."

"I see." Illya stood. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Carstens."

"You're not going to say anything to the mayor, are you?"

"No."

"But I might," Mike added as he followed the Russian out.

Illya steered him to a secluded doorway. "You have a wicked streak."

"Nyah. I just don't like bureaucrats."

"Understandable."

"So, ya gonna be a city planner?"

"Apparently so. All I need to do is find a cooperative city administration, and--"

"You're gonna take over somebody's office?" Mike scratched his head through his hat. "Seems like an awful lotta bother."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to invite him to a party?"

"Yeah."

Kuryakin looked up at him skeptically. "Obviously I'm missing something. How can setting up a party be easier than borrowing someone's office for half an hour?"

"Because I can set up the party. Name a time."

"Seven-thirty."

"Done. Bring Kung Fuie Luie. I'll take care of everything else."

 

"My thighs... my thighs! I'll never be able to stand again!" Micky exclaimed weakly. He and the other two Monkees sprawled on a pile of floormats, trying to recover from the ninety minute class.

"My arms... my arms!" echoed Peter. "I'll never be able to lift my bass again!" He waited for Davy to continue. The Englishman, however, remained silent. Peter raised his head to better see him.

Davy lay on his stomach, chin resting on both hands. His muscles didn't bother him. He was too busy watching Angela tuck a towel into a large bag to notice any strain. She felt his eyes on her; smiling shyly, she waved as she slipped out of the door.

Davy's sigh rattled his entire body. "She's divine. Did you see how she caught on? She has a natural ability."

Micky groaned. "Everybody can do push-ups, Davy."

"Oh? Then why are you laying there like that?"

"You got a point." The drummer forced himself to sit up. "Maybe if we move around, our muscles won't get stiff."

"Maybe we should get massages," Peter suggested. "That's what Mr. Solo is doing."

"You sure?"

"I asked him. He says there's a real Swedish masseuse back there."

"Yeah? So?" prompted Davy.

"Her name's Inga."

"What are we waiting for?" The Englishman jumped to his feet... and immediately regretted it. "Maybe if we hold onto each other...."

Micky and Peter struggled to their feet.


	2. Act II: I Think The Nutmeg Enhances the Root Beer and Lime Sherbert

Solo talked to his partner as he continued photographing the notes in Hui's office. "You work fast," the senior agent observed.

"I had a little help. Anything other than the notes?"

"Not yet. I don't even know if the notes are any good. They're all in Chinese. For all I know, I could be photographing his family cookbook."

"Oh, I'm sure they're slightly more significant than that."

Napoleon turned over the last paper. "Oops. That's it. I'd make that phone call, if I were you. Channel 'F' out." He carefully replaced the papers in the folder and the folder back in the stack. Crossing to the door, he eased it open slightly to check his escape route... and came eye to eye with Micky.

The drummer stopped in his tracks and cocked his head. The other Monkees noticed this action and Napoleon's presence at the same time.

The agent casually opened the door and stepped out. His sheepish grin rang only 92% true. "Hi, kids. This place is like a maze. I thought this was the locker room."

"Sure, man, sure," said Micky.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Solo," Davy added.

"Well... see you tomorrow." Napoleon strolled back down the hall with practiced nonchalance.

The Monkees watched him go. As soon as he was out of earshot, Micky said, "He is a spy. Why else would he be sneaking around Kung Fuie's office?"

"Let's take a look 'round for ourselves," Davy suggested.

"I believe him."

The drummer rolled his eyes. "You would."

"Peter, Peter, Peter...... Davy sighed. "You're the one who suggested it first."

"Oh. Yeah. That's right."

"Come on." Micky pushed him into the office.

 

Napoleon took his time changing into street clothes. He had too good of a listening post. Hui stood in the doorway of the locker room, booking by telephone his next demonstration.

"The city planner of where?" Hui asked. "Oh. Oh! Excellent. You are a very hard man to get hold of... yes, thank you. We aim to please. You would like a demonstration, yes? How about Thursday?... Oh. Tonight? Is this not short notice ... ? I see. Yes. Yes... a party? We don't.... That's true, we did.... Oh, you do? My goodness, I am sorry to hear that.... I may not be able to get my advanced students together in time.... Beginners, perhaps.... Fine. Thank you. See you tonight, Mr. Kuryakin." He hung up, then nodded to Solo. "You will participate in demonstration tonight."

"I will?"

"Yes. It's in your contract. Be at 1334 N. Beechwood Drive at 7:30 tonight." Hui raised his voice as he exited. "Wong! Meet me in my office!"

Napoleon grunted satisfactorily. He bought it. Not only did he buy it, he left the workout area unwatched and open to searching. And searching was what Solo was going to do.

 

Peter looked around the office again, checked under the telephone in case he had missed something, then pursed his lips, obviously puzzled. "Guys ... ? What exactly are we looking for?"

Micky shrugged as he closed a file drawer. "I dunno.... Something that shouldn't be in an office. "

"Nothing but dust bunnies here," Davy said as he crawled out from underneath the couch.

Maybe Mr. Solo already has the proof."

"You may be right, Peter. Perhaps we should--" Davy broke off, his eyes widening as Hui's voice neared. "He's coming!"

"Quick, hide!" Micky wedged himself behind the filing cabinet; Davy rolled back under the couch. Peter dove underneath the desk as the door opened.

"Wong, this is it! We obtain the plans for this city, then we can put Los Angeles' plans on the block. Think of it, Wong! We'll be able to return home and hold our heads high in the presence of your father."

"Yes, Master." Wong stood obediently as Hui settled behind his desk, his knees barely missing Peter's face. "Er, Master?"

"Yes, Wong?"

"Why can't we return home now?"

Hui rolled his eyes. "Why must you ask that question every single time?"

"Because I don't understand yet."

"Why am I not surprised?" Hui took a deep breath to calm himself. Underneath the desk, Peter put his hands on the ground to relieve some of the stress off his ham strings. 

Wong looked at his instructor expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to explain it to me?"

"You idiot!" He shot up, angered. He didn't notice his right foot rested squarely on Peter's hand. The bassist winced, but managed (barely) not to cry out. "Why should I waste my time?" Hui continued. "I'll only have to explain it again tomorrow."

"I'll remember this time, I promise."

"All right, all right." Hui spoke slowly, overemphasizing each syllable. "Your father specializes in municipal intelligence, right?"

"Uh...." Wong struggled to remember what "municipal" meant. "Yes."

"And what's the one item he's never been able to obtain?"

"A bowl of egg drop soup as good as Grandmother used to make?"

"No, you imbecile!" He stomped his foot for emphasis. Peter snatched his hand back, and clamped it in his underarm for comfort.

"Then what?" wondered Wong.

"The infrastructure plans to a major American city."

"I don't understand."

"The Russians and Thrush have both expressed an interest in buying the plans to Los Angeles. We'll be able to name our price!"

"Uh, Master?"

"What is it now, you sick little monkey?"

Wong swallowed hard. He hated it when Hui's eyes bulged out of his head like they did now. Still, he had to know. "What does a little songbird want with the plans to Los Angeles?"

"Arrrgh!" The Kung Fu master slammed his fist down on the desk. The desk split neatly in two, the halves collapsing onto the Monkee.

Peter, more surprised than hurt, didn't move. Maybe no one would notice him as long as he stayed quiet and still.

Hui spotted a corner of a Kung Fu uniform and dragged Peter out of the wreckage. "Ah ha! Spying on me, were you?"

"Well, I--"

"Don't try to lie your way out of this, Peter Tork. What possible reason could you have for being underneath my desk, other than spying?"

"Looking for a lost contact?"

Wong immediately pulled the desk parts out of the way. "I will help you look."

"Wong! This young man is obviously a spy! Put him with the other two!"

Yes, Master." Wong flung the bassist over his shoulder and carried him out of the room, ignoring his struggles.

Hui sighed, took in the damage to his desk, and grimaced. "I will make my calls from the classroom phone." He shut the door on the way out.

Davy rolled out from underneath the couch. "Micky, we have to do something to rescue--Micky?"

A wiry arm popped out from behind the filing cabinet. "I think I'm stuck."

"Let me help." Davy pulled on the arm with both hands.

After a moment, the drummer popped out. "Thanks, man. We gotta--wow! Would you look at that desk? Maybe signing up for kung fu lessons wasn't so bad of an idea."

The Englishman made a face. "Cute."

"Hey, I was serious."

"We have to do something about Peter."

"Like what?"

"Rescue him, obviously."

"You want to face those two right now?"

"Well......

"Without being prepared?"

"Well ... let's get Mike, and come back here."

Micky nodded, relieved. "Good idea."

 

Napoleon sauntered over to the three heavy bags that hung in a corner of the workout area. He had covered Hui's office, both locker rooms, and the main room. Nothing appeared remotely suspicious other than those notes. Hopefully Illya had come up with another angle-otherwise, he would be stuck dogging Hui's tail throughout the demonstration. Ah, well ... that's how it went sometimes. Solo gave the nearest bag a firm punch to emphasize his point.

The bag groaned.

Solo certainly did not expect that reaction. He inspected the bag more closely, finding a concealed zipper running the length of the bag. Heavy bags weren't supposed to have zippers! He pulled down the zipper head. A missing U.N.C.L.E. agent--bound, gagged, and bruised--all but tumbled out. Napoleon caught him. "Warnock! What are you doing here?"

The other agent grunted an indistinct sentence.

"Where's Stilling?"

Warnock jerked his head toward one of the other bags.

"Good. I'll have you out in--uh oh." He heard Hui's door open. "Back you go." He stuffed Warnock back in the bag, then climbed in himself. "I'm only going a few stops," Solo murmured by way of apology as he zipped the bag most of the way up. He held the top closed with a hand, keeping a crack free to peer out of.

Wong came into sight briefly as he flipped Peter onto a mat. "You're going to join your fellow spies, spy."

"I'm not a spy, I'm just a kid."

"That's what all spies say. I know. I watch television." He pinned the bassist down with a foot. "Now be still."

"Why? What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to put you to good use."

"Oh, really? How?"

"You're going to be new punching bag."

"That's a good use?"

"The other two aren't making much noise any more."

"Oh." Peter grinned. "I'm glad I can be useful."

Hui padded into the room. "Wong, you're supposed to imprison him, not talk to him. Now tie him up. I have some phone calls to make." He picked up a wall extension and started dialing numbers off his beginning class roster.

Wong dug out a length of rope from his uniform. "Hands, please."

"Oh, sure." Peter presented his hands, ready to be tied. "Not too tight. I'm a musician."

"Sure you are." Wong secured his prisoner, popped a rag in his mouth, and stuffed him in the empty heavy bag. "He's imprisoned, Master."

"Yes, yes, I can see that--now sweep the room. I am on the telephone."

"Sweep?"

"With the broom, you dim little...oh, hello. I would speak with Mr. Micky Dolenz, please." Hui turned his attention to the receiver.

Wong glanced around the area, spotted the broom, and ambled over to it with a spring in his step. Solo silently apologized to his bag mate, then, slowly stretching a finger at a time, willed Hui to make his phone calls quickly.

 

Mike paced the kitchenette with the phone hanging from a hand. "He's not here right now ... Oh, I see ... uh huh ... Sure, I'll give him a message ... 7:30 tonight. Okay. Where? ... 1334 North Beechwood. Yeah, I think he'll know where that is ... okay ... and a sayonara to you, too." He hung up. "Sounds like we're going to have a bunch of beginners at the demon--what in the world are you doing?"

Illya crawled out from behind an amplifier. "Inspecting the premises."

"On your knees? What are you inspecting for? Ants?"

"Is music a hobby or a profession?" Kuryakin stroked the fingerboard of a twelve string guitar lightly.

"Well, we earn enough to scrape by ... usually." The Monkee pursed his lips. "Y'know, you're pretty good at changing the subject."

"All part of my profession." Wandering off the bandstand, he glanced up to the second floor balcony. "What's up there?"

"A large bedroom."

"And through that door?"

"Another bedroom, and the can."

Illya looked into the room. "It will have to do."

"Do? Do for what?" Mike folded his arms across his chest. "Just what are you planning, anyway?"

"I'll lead Hui to believe the plans are in here. The room will be watched at all--"

"Mike! Mike!" Micky flew through the front door, Davy on his heels. He jerked to a halt upon seeing Illya and his half-drawn gun. "What the--"

"Um, Mike," Davy ventured. "Is everything all right?"

The guitarist waited for Kuryakin to put his Special away before telling his bandmates, "Don't mind Illya. He's a little trigger happy, but he'll get you out of your contracts."

"How? By shooting them full of holes?" Davy shook his head. "I don't think that would stand up in a court of law."

"Law courts have nothing to do with it," Illya pointed out. "We plan on shutting down Kung Fuie Luie's operations."

Micky looked decidedly sheepish. "There's one small problem with that. Peter."

"Peter? Who's Peter?"

"Peter's our bassist," Mike explained. "The real question is, 'Where's Peter?' Where's Peter, Micky?"

" Uh, well, um......

"Kung Fuie Luie's got him," Davy blurted out. "Caught him in his office, accused him of spying, and had his goon take him off some place."

"What was he doing in Hui's office?" Illya asked.

Spying."

We all were," Micky added. "Peter just got caught, that's all."

Mike leaned against the stairwell. "Do I want to hear why you guys were spying on him?"

"Well, we saw Mr. Solo sneaking around in there, and we thought he might be a spy cause we saw him talking to his pen earlier, and we wanted to know why he was interested in Luie and all."

"Could we save the explanations for later?" Davy suggested. "Peter's in terrible trouble."

"Not if Mr. Solo's in the area." Illya produced his communicator.

"You know him or something?"

"Yes, Micky, I do." He opened channel "D".

 

Wong lingered by the bag holding Peter, caressing a seam lovingly with a finger while he waited for Hui to get off the phone. Napoleon kept an eye on them both from his hiding place. He hoped they would leave soon--the bag became more claustrophobic with each passing moment. He also hoped they would leave without working out on the heavy bags. Not that he worried about getting hit, or worried about Warnock and Stilling getting a further beating...he worried that Peter would get injured. A head blow could be potentially dangerous, especially since the kid didn't seem to have a lot of brain power to begin with.

Hui hung up. Wong bounded to his side like an eager puppy. "Can I work out now, Master? You are no longer on the telephone, so I would not disturb your thoughts."

"Your mere existence disturbs my thoughts, Wong." Hui further demonstrated his contempt by attending to the grime under his fingernails.

Wong studied Hui for nearly a full minute, looking for some hint that the kung fu master planned to say something else. "Um ... does that mean I can work on the heavy bag?"

"No! We are going to have dinner."

"Then can I work out?"

"No! We have a demonstration to attend."

"Oh? Who will be demonstrating?"

Hui bared his teeth. "We will."

"Are we demonstrating for or against the war?"

"Neither, you fool! We are demonstrating our kung fu prowess! Argh! Can you not remember anything?"

"Uh...."

"Oh, come along." Hui dragged Wong out of Napoleon's line of sight.

The agent heard the exterior door close and lock a moment before his pen rang. He stepped out of the bag as he answered the call. "Solo here. You have good timing for once."

"What do you mean, 'for once'?" Illya demanded.

"Just that if you called a moment earlier, I would have been caught." He offered a hand to Warnock.

"And then I would have had to rescue you again. Yes, I could see how you would consider that 'bad timing.' Listen, one of the young men in your class has been mistaken for a spy, and--"

"Yes, I know. I'm about to rescue him. Warnock and Stilling, too."

"Alive?"

"Yes, but probably not enjoying it, judging by the amount of bruising. We'll head over to your location. I assume you're at 1334 North Beechwood?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly is that?"

"Ask Peter. He lives there. Channel 'D' out."

Napoleon tucked his communicator away. Warnock offered his bound wrists expectantly. "Do you really feel you've earned your freedom?" Warnock's eyes narrowed. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Solo untied him and removed his gag.

Warnock flexed his jaw. "Thanks, Solo. How 'bout doing the same for my partner?"

"You get him. I'll get the innocent." Napoleon unzipped Peter's bag. The bassist's frightened features melted into relief once he realized who had opened the bag. Solo quickly removed the gag and ties. "You okay?"

Peter considered the question seriously. "I think so."

"Good." Solo glanced over at the other agents. "How about you two? Ready to help Kung Fuie Luie in?"

"Ah...I'll take a pass, if you don't mind." Stilling rubbed his hands to restore circulation. "I think I'd be much more effective back at headquarters, under a large dose of Demerol."

"Me, too... although there is one place I think we should stop off at first," added Warnock.

"A restaurant?"

"The toilet." The two agents carefully dashed for the locker room.

"Now what, Mr. Solo?" Peter asked.

"We regroup. Lead on."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because you know where 1334 North Beechwood is."

"I do?"

"It's where you live."

"Oh, yeah. I'm bad at remembering addresses."

Solo studied him a moment. "You're not related to Wong, are you?"

"Of course not. I know what an infrastructure is."

"Do you?"

"I think I do."

"Come on." Napoleon pulled Peter toward the door.

 

Micky placed a large bowl of chips on the card table set up in a corner, then stepped back to admire the arrangement. "Wow! What a set-up! Three kinds of dip, four kinds of chips, cookies, veggies.... Too bad we have to share."

"We really appreciate you paying for it all, Mr. Solo," Davy added, handing Mike a piece of tape and another balloon.

Napoleon shrugged off the thanks. "It's the least U.N.C.L.E. could do." He pushed the couch closer to the front door to allow more room for dancing.

"Viola!" Peter jumped back from the punch bowl with a flourish. "It's ready, guys. Who wants to try it first?"

Micky engrossed himself in the finer points of chip arrangement. Davy looked up at the ceiling, as if he hadn't heard. Mike turned his back on the bassist (a tricky thing to do balancing on top of a step ladder).

"Well, if no one else wants to..." Illya helped himself. He sipped it, smiled, and downed the rest in one gulp. "Great punch."

"Really?" Mike climbed off the ladder, took a glass, filled it partway, and drank. He made a face. "You're weird, Illya."

"What's wrong with it?" Peter asked.

"Well, as a punch, it makes a great disinfectant." He poured the remainder down the drain.

"Oh."

Illya said, "Don't listen to him. I think the nutmeg enhances the root beer and the lime sherbet."

"You would." Mike picked up a discarded wrapping.

Solo checked his watch. "Okay. It's 7:25. Let's review what's going to happen." He waved the Monkees onto the couch. His partner hovered behind it. "Micky, you and Davy circulate--keep an eye on both Luie and Wong. If you think they're up to something, come and tell me. Don't take matters into your own hands."

"Aw, we wouldn't do something like that, would we, Davy?"

"Considering our track record, Micky......

"Just don't try something on your own." Solo looked at the guitarist. "Mike, you're playing host. If anyone asks, Illya's your cousin."

"Right. My cousin."

"Illya?"

The Russian shrugged. "Everything's set up. We have a pair of agents outside the downstairs bedroom window, in case they try to leave that way. I will remain in the bedroom until Luie and Wong arrive. Mike will come get me, and I will tell them I was working on some infrastructure diagrams. We'll let their nature take its course from there."

"Good."

"What about me?" Peter asked.

"Oh. Peter. Right." Napoleon pointed upstairs. "Go hide."

"Huh?"

"Go hide. You're still supposedly being held at the school. If they see you, they'll know something's up."

"Does that mean I can't go to the party?"

"I'm afraid so." Napoleon seemed genuinely apologetic.

"Don't worry, Peter, there'll be other parties." Mike patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly.

"Not one with three kinds of dip."

Micky rolled his eyes. "So we'll save you some."

"Better yet..." Illya dumped an unopened tub of dip and a bag of corn chips on Peter's lap. "You can take it with you. Now get upstairs."

"But--"

"Go."

Peter sighed and slowly took his snack upstairs. He lingered on the landing.

"In the bedroom, Peter," Napoleon called. "And shut the door behind you."

The door slamming rattled the windows.


	3. Act III: We Will Now Demonstrate Kung Fu Ability

Hui could hear the noise from the jukebox halfway up the driveway. "This is an unexpected turn of events, Wong."

The student shook his head as he bounced in time to the music. "No, actually, it's the Honeybears."

"Argh!" Hui knocked, realized no one would hear him, and pushed the door open.

He and Wong stepped into chaos. Forty young people--long-haired, in brightly-colored clothes--jumped to the latest tunes spinning on the jukebox. Four of his students joined in, Mr. Solo looking decidedly out of place as he tried to frug with Angela.

"This is a party?" Hui wondered.

Mike noticed the new arrivals. "Hi!" he greeted above the noise. "You must be Kung Fuie Luie. Come one in!"

"This is ... the Kuryakin party?" Hui ventured.

"Ah--sure."

"And you are Illya Kuryakin?"

"No, no, he's my cousin. C'mon in, make yourself at home. I'll tell him you're here." Mike disappeared into the downstairs bedroom.

"Hmph." Hui studied the crowd dancing and wrinkled his nose. "Westerners! Wong, get the mats and--Wong?" Wong stared intently at the closed bedroom door, his face screwed up in painful concentration. "What is it, Wong?"

"I've seen that one before."

"That one what?"

"The one who talked to us. I've seen him before."

Hui waved the thought off. "All occidentals look alike, Wong. Now, shush--here comes our host."

Illya worked his way through the crowd toward the Chinese. With his glasses on and his tie loosened, he looked the part of a young engineer. "I'm so glad you could make it," he said, shaking Hui's hand. "I know it was rather sudden notice, but--"

"Quite all right, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I figured that if you could entertain my cousin's friends, you'd be a hit at the street festival next week."

"Thank you for your kind words. I am not keeping you from other things?"

"Oh, no, the infrastructure plans can wait. shouldn't be bringing work home in any case. It's not like I'm being paid for it."

"Of course not. Of course not." Hui took Illya by the elbow and guided him away from the largest concentration of kids. "Now, when shall we set up?"

Wong remained in the doorway, giving Mike the evil eye.

 

Napoleon used the excuse of getting Angela some punch to consult with Mike and Micky. Micky was eating potato chips as fast as Mike could fill the bowl. "So far so good, huh, Mr. Solo?" the drummer asked between mouthfuls.

"Well, considering he's been here only three minutes, yes, it's going good."

"When do you think he'll make his move?"

"Sometime after the demonstration. Keep an eye on both of them."

Mike crumpled the empty chip bag. "How can I keep an eye on Wong when Wong's got both eyes on me?"

"Hah?" Solo checked Hui's assistant. "I wonder what his problem is."

"I dunno. You don't think he recognizes me, do you?"

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. "Recognizes you? Recognizes you from where?"

"Well ... just before I hooked up with Illya, I tried to sign up for the class. Wong wouldn't let me--said it was full."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

Mike shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

Micky added, "It's not like Wong's gonna remember him. Not really. He's lucky he remembers his name."

"Still.... Mike, tell Illya about this. Micky, you and I should get back to circulating." Napoleon took two paper cups full of punch and went in search of Angela.

 

Davy caught Angela's hand in his before he realized he was near. "I've been looking for you."

She smiled shyly, keeping her eyes on her kung fu shoes. "I'm hard to miss in this get-up. "

"Well, there are a lot of kids here, and I'm not exactly the tallest person in the room."

"I think you're the perfect height."

"Do you?" He put a finger under her chin and gently turned her face toward his, losing himself in the blue depths of her eyes.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "Angela? Your punch?"

"Hmm?" Angela tore herself away from Davy's gaze. "Oh. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Solo." She took the cup with her free hand.

Davy had remained oblivious to this exchange. Solo realized that, for the sake of the assignment, he had better keep the couple apart. He took Angela firmly by the arm. "I saw you doing a mean hitchhike earlier. Let's go and you can show me how it's done."

"Sure, Mr. Solo." She meekly allowed him to lead her off to the side.

Davy noticed something amiss when he lost his grip on Angela's hand. "Hey! Angela, wait--!"

Solo glared at the Englishman over his shoulder. "Don't you have something you're supposed to be doing?" he mouthed.

Davy frowned--then remembered the reason for the party. He had the grace to look slightly sheepish.

 

Peter curled into a tighter ball and jammed his pillow over his ears. He could still hear the party noises. It wasn't fair! After all, he got the guys involved in the first place. He should at least be allowed to attend the party and help capture Kung Fuie Luie and Wong. But, no, he had to stay out of sight and out of mind, just like Cinderella....

_CinderPeter rinsed the toothbrush out and sat back on his heels, inspecting the newly-cleaned kitchenette floor. He had spent all day scrubbing the floor with his personal toothbrush to make sure it was spotless enough for his stepU.N.C.L.E.'s taste. If it passed, he would be allowed to go to the party that evening._

_The floor gleamed. CinderPeter sighed, pushing his long hair out of his eyes. His stepU.N.C.L.E.. would have to let him go now. Unless, of course, something happened in the next five minutes...._

_The front door slammed, CinderPeter's wicked stepbrothers stomped in noisily. Dressed alike in velvet suits with ruffled shirts and dark bow ties, they put both CinderPeter's tattered rags and the Beatles' wardrobe to shame._

_"Aw, look at CinderPeter!" Micky exclaimed. "He's all tired out after a hard day's work. "_

_"Tsk tsk, look at how he just sits there on his laurels, " Mike added. "Whatta layabout."_

_Davy examined the floor. "Oh, dear, CinderPeter, you missed a spot."_

_"What?! Where?"_

_"Right there. Watch." He stomped across the floor to the refrigerator, leaving a trail of muddy footprints._

_"Oh no!" CinderPeter grabbed his toothbrush and resumed scrubbing. Davy helped himself to a cola while Mike and Micky snickered._

_What's so funny?" U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon asked, coming downstairs. He stopped short upon seeing the condition of the floor. "Is this how you repay me? I ask you to do a simple task, give you plenty of time to do it in, and you don't even try to complete it._

_"But it was done--at least until Davy--"_

_"Blaming your failures on others, too. " U.N.C.L. E. Napoleon shook his head. "No party for you, Cinderpeter."_

_"But-- "_

_"And don't talk back. Come on, guys, the GTO awaits. " He ushered Davy, Micky, and Mike out._

_CinderPeter watched the door shut with a quivering lower lip. Now he'd never get to the party. If only someone could help him ... !_

_A slight, blond figure dressed as a traditional male ballet dancer materialized in front of him. "I will help you go to the party, CinderPeter."_

_"Who--who are you?"_

_"I am Illya, your fairy godU.N.C.L.E."_

_"Fairy godU.N.C.L.E.? But how--?"_

_Illya shrugged. "I look better in tights than Napoleon does."_

_"Oh. Can you really help me get into the party?"_

_"Sure. How did Cinderella go to the ball?"_

_"She clicked her heels together three times and--"_

_"Wrong story. Try again. "_

_"She bit into the poisoned apple and--"_

_"No."_

_"Uh.... " CinderPeter scratched his head. "Her fairy godmother changed her into a princess. "_

_"Right. And no one recognized her because she was in disguise."_

_"Disguise?"_

Peter sat up. That's it! If he disguised himself, he could go downstairs and nobody would know he was there. He dove for the nearest closet.

 

Illya took in Wong's intense stance. "The best thing you can do, Mike, is keep moving. Try to keep moving, and--what is that?"

"Huh?" Mike risked a glance toward Wong. He saw someone in a heavy, floor length tweed coat, dark glasses, and a Harpo Marx wig sneak around the student and hover on the outskirts of the dancing throng. "That has got to be the worst excuse for a disguise I have ever seen!"

"Agreed. I'll persuade Peter to return upstairs. You keep circulating." Illya took a step toward the bassist, noted Hui approaching, and parlayed his movement into a trip to the refreshment table.

 

Peter's first instinct upon seeing Hui approach was to run. But, no, he was heading for Wong. Maybe they were going to discuss their Plan. He should stick around, try to listen in. He bopped in place as if grooving to the music.

Hui gave the young man only a passing thought. Those occidental people--they wore the strangest clothing! He tugged on Wong's jacket. "Wong! Wake up!"

"I still think I saw him someplace else, Master."

"Enough! Concentrate on the job at hand! I will start the demonstration in a few minutes."

Wong tugged his jacket hem, smoothing out a few wrinkles. "I will organize the other students, Master." He started off.

Hui pulled him back with a yank on his sleeve. "No, you idiot. You will use the demonstration as a distraction to sneak in and take the plans."

"Me? Alone?" Wong swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"

"Even a fool like you can figure it out. The plans are out in the open. Our host was working on them when we arrived. All you have to do is roll them up and slip them into your jacket. Then rejoin the party. We will leave as soon as the demonstration's over. Do you understand?"

The student chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. "I understand all except the last part, Master."

"Last part? What last part?"

"The part after 'even a fool can figure it out'."

"Argh! You idiot! Be ready. We start in five minutes." Hui swirled his robes around him in a huff as he stalked off.

Wong folded his arms across his chest and eyed the dancing kids warily.

Peter thought about what he had heard. Five minutes! That was ... any moment now! He had better tell someone. He checked the crowd, spotted the tall Texan, and maneuvered through the dancers to his side. "Mike! Mike! They're gonna do it!" he hissed. "They're gonna--"

"Pete, I don't wanna hear it." He gave his friend his sternest look. "You're not even supposed t'be down here. Do you want to screw up the operation?"

"But, Mike--"

"'But, Mike' nothing! Ya better get back upstairs before somebody else recognizes you." He pushed Peter toward the stairs, then turned his attention back to the party.

The bassist found Davy next. He had his hand entwined with Angela's; their eyes bored into each other's souls with passionate admiration. "Davy?" No response. "Davy!" Still no response. "Davy!!!" Nothing. Peter sighed. His friend was out for the count. Might as well tell Mr. Solo about it.

Napoleon's eyebrow rose with bemusement. "Nice disguise."

"Thanks. Listen, they're gonna try to take the plans, and--"

"I know. That's why I'm here."

"You don't understand. They're gonna do it so--"

\--sometime this evening, yes. Look, I know you want to help, kid, but believe me, you'll help the most by going back upstairs and leaving the spying to the spies."

"But--"

"Scoot!"

Peter sighed. Obviously Mister Solo wasn't going to listen to him, either. Maybe Micky or Illya--

"Attention! Attention!" Hui shut off the jukebox and clapped his hands together. "We will now demonstrate kung fu ability. Students, please take your places along that end of the room." He pointed away from the bedroom door. Solo took his place, stifling a chuckle as Micky pushed the still-interlocked Davy and Angela into the cleared space. The party goers gathered in a semi-circle, murmuring in anticipation.

Peter's face screwed up in determination. It looked like he would have to stop Wong. He inched toward the bedroom door. Checking that no one was paying attention, he door and slipped inside the room.

He didn't realize that Illya could observe people without looking like he was.

 

Kuryakin eased the door shut. The room remained undisturbed--the prop plans spread out on the bed, the yellow legal pad and pencil carefully abandoned, the shoes left on the side of the bed, the top of the Harpo Marx wig peeking up over the far side of the bed--oh bother. "Peter, if you want to remain inconspicuous, you should remove that awful disguise."

The bassist popped up from his hiding place. "How did you know I was here?"

"It's a long story. Take that wig off." Peter stripped off his disguise. "Now get out of here. "

"But Wong's gonna come in here any minute to take the plans!"

"Are you sure?"

"I heard Kung Fuie Luie tell him what to do."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I tried. Nobody would listen. So I decided to handle things myself."

"I see. A noble idea, but you really should--" The door knob turned. --hide!" Illya bolted over the bed, pushing Peter's head down as he ducked behind the far edge of the bed.

Wong entered, not bothering to shut the door all the way. "Say ... this isn't an office. How can I find plans if they are not in an office?" He scratched is head. "Where do I start? Oh, I know." He started going through the dresser drawers.

"Boy, is he dumb!" Peter whispered.

"Obviously, if even you realize it." Kuryakin slipped a hand underneath the plans and rattled them. Wong stiffened, paused, shrugged, and opened another drawer. Kuryakin shook them again. Wong paused to think about the noise, scratching his head to coax a solution out of it.

Peter saved Illya the trouble of shaking the papers a third time. "Hey! Over here, on the bed!"

"What?" Wong turned, noticing the plans for the first time. "Oh, thank you!"

"You're welcome!"

Illya silenced Peter by placing a hand over is mouth.

The student whistled to himself as he rolled up the plans and stuffed them into his uniform jacket. He took a step away--and halted. "Hey...who said that? Is someone in here?" Silence. "I bet someone's in here!" He jumped on top of the bed to better see all of the room. "Ah ha!" He pointed an accusing finger at the two hunched figures. "There is someone in here! There are two someones in here!"

Illya sprung up and toppled him off the bed. "Run, Peter!" he ordered, scrambling after the student.

The bassist skirted around the altercation, flinging the door open and running into the middle of a surprised crowd.

Solo saw the door open; he caught Hui's arm and growled, "Demonstration's over."

The kung fu master jabbed his left heel into Napoleon's ankle, loosening the agent's grip on him long enough to twist around and fling Napoleon into the crowd. "You will pay for this! "

Micky ran to the jukebox, beating Mike there by a fraction of a second. "We gotta distract the kids somehow," he panted, selecting a song at random.

"Good thinking, shotgun." Mike tugged on a girl's arm, pulling her into dancing as the music started. He quickly passed her off on another guy, nodded to the drummer, and pushed his way through the now-bopping crowd to Solo and Hui.

Hui was hitting Solo with rapid-fire punches, getting off three to every one of the agent's blocks. Micky grabbed Hui's right arm, Mike his left. They planned to contain him. Instead, Hui pulled his arms together, bashing the Monkees' heads together. He shook the dazed musicians off him and turned his attention back to Solo.

Napoleon brandished a couch cushion like a shield. Hui stepped back, bowed, feigned a punch--and kicked his unprotected knee.

 

Although Wong had the strength of an ox and the size of a bear, he had the intelligence of your average bowl of steamed rice. Therefore, the lighter, slighter Illya could hold his own ... if "holding his own" meant rolling about the dusty floor locked with Wong. Of course, Wong made it challenging: he lurched in time to the music. Illya, however, was willing to brave it out until Napoleon could come and help. Or until his dinner escaped.

"Uh...Illya?" Peter ventured, returning to the room with a wary eye on the tussling pair. "Do you need some help?"

The sheer stupidity of the question kept Kuryakin quiet through several rotations. Finally, he replied, "No, Peter, I'm auditioning for Big Time Wrestling. What do you think?"

"You're doing it all wrong. Big Time Wrestling's more than just rolling around the floor."

"Is it."

"Sure. You gotta body slam him once in awhile."

"Really."

"Uh huh."

"Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate."

The bassist shook his head. "Oh no, I couldn't."

"You're not scared, are you?"

"No. There aren't any ropes to throw myself off of."

Kuryakin gritted his teeth. "Some help you are."

"Do you think something stolen from The Green Hornet would help instead?"

Wong halted in mid-roll, lifting Illya off of and to one side of him as if the agent were a toddler. "Did you say 'Green Hornet'?"

"Yes, I did."

"I love that show. That Kato--he knows kung fu better than even my master!"

"You know, Wong," Illya said, "It's on now."

"It is?" He tossed the agent onto the bed and scrambled to his feet. "I have to find a

television set!"

"There's a portable one outside, in the bushes."

"But--"

"Isn't there, Peter?"

"If you say so, Illya."

"Oh joy! My very favorite program in the whole wide world!" Wong dove out the window.

Kuryakin breathed a sigh of relief, and dug fingers and toes into the bedspread for further anchorage--his stomach still spun.

Peter's nose wrinkled in confusion. "Didn't he just escape?"

"No. I sent him into the main concentration of back-up agents."

"Oh.... Oh, I get it!" Peter beamed.

 

Angela winced as Hui slammed Solo to the floor. "Davy, can't you do something?"

"What? You want me to crawl out from underneath this table and get tossed about by some Chinese madman?"

"Well--"

"And leave you unprotected?" He put his arm around her shoulder to emphasize his protective role.

"Since you put it that way, I suppose you'd better stay here."

"Exactly. Besides, here come Peter and Illya. I'd like to see Kung Fuie Luie handle five at once!" He snuggled closer to her, humming along softly to the music.

 

The problem, thought Hui as he slammed Micky into Mike, was that he couldn't exactly take them all out with a decisive series of attacks in public. He knew the kids watched as they danced--they kept trying to imitate his moves on the misapprehension that he was doing the latest dance craze. A few of them were bound to catch on once none of the three attackers got up again. Instead, he had to repeatedly flip the two musicians and the semi-skilled agent out of the way. He hoped they tired before he did.

Solo rushed him again; Hui halted him with a side kick and watched him stagger back clutching his abdomen. The kung fu master then turned back to Mike and Micky. They were still picking themselves off the floor. Good. Perhaps he could slip out in the momentary confusion. He turned toward the door ... and came face to face with Peter. "So, Peter Tork, you want to be thrown, too?"

"Oh, no."

"Then why do you block my way so?"

"Uh ... can't tell you."

"Then get out of my way."

Peter shook his head. "Can't do that, either."

"Do you want something from me? Is that why you pester me so?" The bassist nodded enthusiastically. Hui sighed. "Very well. What do you want?"

"Put your arm out."

"What?"

"Put your arm out." Peter held his right arm out to the side to illustrate.

Hui, intrigued despite his irritation, imitated Peter's movement...and was flipped over the hip of a Russian with a black belt in karate. Illya followed up with a foot on Hui's throat. "Will you come quietly?"

"'Coming quietly' for someone such as myself would be coming without honor." 

"I was afraid of that."

Hui jammed the heel of his hand into Kuryakin's knee to free himself, then followed up by jerking him to the floor. "So. Now we are on equal terms."

"Perhaps."

They scrambled to their feet, bowed to each other, and started circling warily, maintaining a defensive readiness.

 

Peter joined his friends and Solo near the jukebox. "Uh, guys? You okay?"

"Well, other than my entire body feels like a punching bag, yeah, I guess I'm okay." Mike fluffed the pom pon on the top of his wool hat, then jammed it back on his dark, wavy locks.

Micky rubbed his left wrist. "I may never play the guitar again."

Peter nodded knowingly. "Good thing you're the drummer." He looked at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "How about you, Mr. Solo?"

"A long massage, and I'll be as good as new." He winced as a particularly loud body slam shook the floor. "Hope Illya can say the same."

The three Monkees glanced at the fight. "Shouldn't we do something to help?" asked Micky.

"When Illya's on a roll like that?" Napoleon shook his head. "Why ruin his fun?"

 

Actually, Kuryakin was having fun. He rarely had the opportunity to match his skills with someone of equal ability. Oh, sure, the technique differed slightly, but the end results were the same: in this case, a stalemate. "You know," he commented as he deflected a trio of head blows, "this isn't getting us anywhere."

"You are trying to distract me?"

"Obviously."

Hui blocked a kick. "It's not going to work."

"We already have Wong."

"This does not surprise me."

"Does this?" Illya caught Hui's punch, and used his momentum to pull him with him as he dropped onto his back, jabbed both feet into Hui's stomach, and flipped him up and away.

The kung fu master landed on top of the jukebox, cracking the glass and silencing the machine. His "yes, it does surprise me" sounded louder than it really was in the suddenly quiet room.

Napoleon checked Hui. "He's out." He lifted him off the jukebox. "I'll get rid of him."

Davy crawled out from under the table, helped Angela to her feet, and surveyed both the stunned crowd and broken jukebox. "'ey! What's goin' on here?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Davy. We'll let you get on with your party now." Illya started out.

"Ah...... Mike blocked his way. "How can we have a party without music?"

"You're musicians. Play something."

"Oh." The guitarist beelined for his Gretsch as the kids murmured in anticipation.

Illya got as far as the door before Peter called out, "You're going to stay, aren't you? You and Mr. Solo?"

"Ah ... sure. I'll be back in a moment." He slipped outside to get his partner.

 

Mike bowed his head slightly to acknowledge the kids' applause. "Thank you. For our next song, we'd like to do 'You Just May Be the One'." He gave a countdown. The Monkees started playing as the guitarist sang,

"All Men must have someone,

"have someone

"Who'd never take for granted

"All the pleasures and the fun

"Someone to stand beside them

"And you just may be the one...."

"They're not bad," Illya commented, leaning toward his partner. "Considering the style of music and all. Don't you agree? Napoleon?" He glanced at Solo. The senior agent had his arms wrapped around Angela; they both faced the bandstand. The girl, although comfortable in the agent's arms, clearly had only eyes for Davy Jones. Davy, of course, smiled and winked at her as he sang. Kuryakin sighed. He was caught again, the observer in one of Solo's love competitions. What a way to wrap up an affair! Perhaps if he slipped out in mid-song, he could be done with the matter without anyone noticing....

A petite blonde teenager tugged on his sleeve. "Want to dance or something?"

Illya shook his head. "I don't know the steps."

"I'll show you. I was the Watusi champ at the last school dance. Come on!" She pulled him into the throng of dancing kids.

As the song ended, Davy stepped closer to his mic. "The next song we'd like to do is for a special girl--Angela?" He held out his hand; she stepped onto the bandstand to take it without even a backwards glance at Solo. Davy wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he cou\ntinued, "It's called 'I'll Be True to You.'"

The other Monkees exchanged "Do you believe this?" glances as they launched into the song. Napoleon offered Davy a mock salute. "Lost out to a musician. Maybe I should take up singing." When his partner failed to respond with a barb about Solo's inability to carry a tune in a bucket, Napoleon looked around for him. Illya held his dance partner close, as they swayed in circles in what passed as slow dancing among the young set. Solo made a face. Something wasn't right. He was supposed to be the one with the girl in the end. 

His pen rang, and he smiled. So there was justice in the world, after all. He slipped outside to take the call.


End file.
